The Window Seat
by HReynaB
Summary: Two boys, in a nearly hidden place in a library. Both from two separate worlds, ones that would be shunned by the rest of the world if brought to light. And oh, how easy it is to get attached to someone, even with secrets in between.
1. Prologue

It had never crossed Hadrian 'Harry' Potter's mind that the Dursley's would never vacation in a foreign country, let alone move to Italy, but they had. They had packed and packed, loaded their things up, found a nice, big house, and moved. Moved despite how un-Dursley such a thing was. He had always assumed they would live in that house on Private Drive until they turned old and grey, just another part of their bland, disgustingly normal life.

But here they were.

They hadn't moved to any of the major parts of Italy, although the city they lived in was large, it had long since been passed over for other places that had more people arriving, more life. Even its name had been long forgotten by all but the oldest of gravestones in its cemetery. It was still a city, however, and it held a multitude of large buildings and houses, each one old and with its charm. Some buildings slumped just slightly, and it was common to see cracks in the roads and sidewalks, creating intricate spider webs that left room for plant sprouts to pop up though, just as they would in the dirt.

It didn't make much sense for Aunt Petunia - she was neat, clean, valued order and gossip with like-minded individuals. For her, everything had to be perfect, and orderly. The plants in the garden spaced exactly, the lawn mowed to 5 cm, no more, no less, the walk swept and the house painted. When doing the shopping, she always made it clear on her less than complimentary views of the city, and how they followed no such guidelines.

Nor did it make any sense for Uncle Vernon. Constantly striving to be sleek and modern (although his waist-line reflected anything but). The latest, most expensive was what he strived for, and the buildings here that were more brick then glass didn't fit such a world view. The man often swore that it would be best to tear the entire place down and start over.

Dudley… well, Dudley was just a lost cause, be it in Italy, or even back in England. That one was truly dense.

Everything about the city seemed to be more suited to Harry; mysterious and cracked, long forgotten by all but the people who lived there, and needed quite a bit of care to reach the point of acceptance. A point nobody bothered to try and get it too.

He rather thought it gave them both a sort of charm not often found in anyone else.

Harry considered himself rather lucky when it came to Italy. Having spent most his life, and all of it that he could remember in Private Drive, he never thought he would get to travel before he turned 18. It was a miracle they let him out of his cupboard most of the time.

But now, he was in a foreign country, left mostly alone when it came to the Dursleys, and even had his own tiny bedroom.

Harry didn't think they would have ever moved to Italy. If it hadn't been for Uncle Vernon being offered some sort of job offer. It was clearly one he couldn't refuse and had been bragging about it to all who would hear, and even those that wouldn't.

Living in a less than perfect city was something all the Dursleys could tolerate, as long as they had more money.

Italy was interesting, in a way. Not that he explored much of it. Or could even learn much, at the moment.

He was learning Italian, which was a slow process. None of his relatives had bothered much with the attempt, that he was aware of, but most of his treasured books were not written in English, especially the older ones; the ones that felt like they would fall apart in his hands if he turned a page too quickly. Those were the ones he found the most interesting.

His written was coming along far quicker than his spoken - for it to be different, he would actually have to talk to someone. Something he wasn't prone to do. It wouldn't be a surprise if any of the people he encountered regularly thought he was mute.

The books were all he had. To learn, to entertain, to understand.

More often than not, Harry found himself in the local library. It was a large place, with a decent number of books, and a small alcove off in the upper part of the building, where the dust gathered and it looked like nobody -not even the librarian- had been there in years. He didn't quite need to hide; Dudley wouldn't enter a library if you paid him a fortune, and he rather suspected Uncle Vernon was the same way. Aunt Petunia didn't want to leave the house, both for the possibility of embarrassing herself with her butchered Italian, and the fact that they seemed different to her.

The library was his safe place.

Every day, as soon as the sun came up he made his way to the library, selected a book, and then lounged in the empty shelves, or sprawled on the open floor.

In the dusty old alcove, there was a seat - pressed right up against the window, large, wide, and well lit. While anyone else would have sat there, Harry just couldn't bring himself to do it. The spot was too open, too easy to see from the entrance. Too easy to spot from the street, if one knew what to look for.

No, his empty shelves were a much better option.

And so the window seat remained empty, just as the alcove had been before Harry had found it.

It had been a perfectly normal day when that changed, no storm clouds up above, no mysterious lightning, no warning or any such things one would think of with foreshadowing.

Harry had left the Dursleys' after completing all of his chores, a list that he had been working with since he was able to reach the cooktop. Cooking and cleaning, his knees and hands were sore, only to barely make it out the door just as the telltale squeaks that meant father and son had managed to wiggle their fat bodies out of bed. Aunt Petunia was often shortly behind them.

He sprayed himself down with the hose, washing quickly with a bar of soap he had long since filched from the house, cleaning off his clothes in the process. When it was all well and done, he started on his walk, drying off despite the cold winter air. Things like the cold never bothered him, despite the too big, threadbare clothes he wore.

It didn't take him long to reach the outskirts, with even less time dedicated to walking to the library steps. It would have been a shorter amount of time, but he often found it best to avoid the man on the park bench, who looked not quite so nice and often looked at him the same way Dudley looked at pudding and Uncle Vernon looked at the wives that came over for dinner. He always ended up walking several more meters and crossing the road exactly five extra times before he arrived.

A perfectly normal day, for both him and everyone else.

Except it wasn't normal, for as soon as he dropped himself to the floor, resting his back against the seemingly ancient wood of the window seat, another boy entered his sanctuary.

The boy was different in every way that he had ever encountered, with an other-ness to him that Harry only ever found in himself, although even that wasn't the same. His own felt almost more diverse, compared to the other angry, intense feeling.

He looked like a boy, if a rather pretty one. He had blond hair that hung in his face covering his eyes, and a rather pretty crown used as a headband. If he had to guess, Harry would say he was about the same age as the other boy, maybe younger. He had conflicting soft-strong features, soft in the cheeks and chin, where it was clear he was still young, but strong underneath, especially in the nose. Rather like when Aunt Petunia stared at the men on the telly, chittering with the gossip club, er, book club, over how aristocratic some man looked.

The blond rather reminded him of a prince, he decided. Although not the soft type.

He also felt strange, and dangerous, but Harry ignored it to return to his book. None of his instincts told him to move or prepare. His most trusted tool, honed with practice and highly responsive, and he felt no true danger to himself. He relied on his instincts when he couldn't rely on anything else, and while he was wary, he didn't feel the urge to run or hide like he probably should.

He would move if that changed, but had no reason for it now.

Harry leaned back to make himself more comfortable, opening the book on his crossed legs, not even glancing back up. He wanted to read about some history, not waste thoughts on another person.

That didn't keep him from noticing the boy mumbling to himself, sharp words that he couldn't quite make out, even though the feelings were clear. Malice and fondness, two emotions one wouldn't consider together, although it seemed to suit the boy.

Letting himself be further absorbed in the book, he ignored the other. He didn't know what he was saying, nor did he care, and as such was going to make no attempt to listen in. Harry had the feeling any attempts to invade his privacy wouldn't be well met, anyways.

And so the two boys sat there, absorbed in their own thoughts and company, not a word was spoken. A peaceful silence, and one that wouldn't be broken for many months.


	2. AN

Another Author's Note!

So I was just going to originally rewrite the chapters, keep the same basic content, and then post.

But I came across a problem.

I can't fix plot holes / weird parts / make the chapters on the longer side (for me, anyways) if I do that.

Which is a problem.

So I ended up dismantling a few chapters on my computer, fixing it up enough for me to sorta like it, and then calling it a chapter. Essentially, what was 3 chapters became 1.

So I'm still rewriting the story, and keeping my basic plot line *cough* plot-what plot *cough* but I ended up having to delete the chapters already up, rather than rewriting each one and just updating as I went.

That makes sense? Maybe.

So this Author's Note will be stuck in after the Prologue, and once I get all of the original chapters rewritten and get to the point where I am writing from scratch again, I'll take it down.

Thank you for suffering along through this with me!

~H.


	3. Chapter 1

Harry missed his sanctuary. It had been a week, a very long week in which he was given twice as many chores and half as much food. A week his ribs were bruised, if not broken, and all he wanted to do was sleep for the rest of his miserable life. A week he couldn't hide away in his peaceful, mostly empty hiding spot, curled up with a book.

It was the worst week had experienced since first moving to Italy, and while not the worst in his short life, he knew that he had become complacent. Soft.

To be perfectly honest, he didn't mind all that much.

All of this led to where he was now, covered in faded bruises, wet and panting on the floor as he tried to ignore the feeling of the blond boy's eyes on him.

More often than not, Harry managed to make it into this section long before the other; leaving the house as soon as he could. Today was an exception.

The moment the many latches on his door where undone, and his Aunt's sneering face told him he was no longer 'grounded', he had booked it.

When he finally made it to the library, he was drenched. It had been raining outside, pouring really, and with the power having gone out in the house leaving all of the Dursley's more grumpy then usual, not to mention the fear-hatred-disgust they gave off these days since he received his letter. Braving the storm was a far better option, he knew.

"You've been gone for the past week." The blond said, and Harry grimaced.

It was the first time the other had ever said anything, and it wasn't even something he could respond to very well. How does one answer a statement? Let alone about such an awkward topic...

"So I have." He figured that would have to do, although he still felt the boy's gaze on him. And it's not like he had asked an actual question.

"Why were you not here, peasant?" The other boy growled, demanding with all of his prince like demeanor. Peasant. Just another way he gave off prince vibes. He had to admit, even if only to himself, he preferred peasant over the many other things he had been called over the years. While he got the feeling the other called most people peasant, that didn't make him like it any less.

"My relatives didn't want me to leave the house for a few days." It was almost like his relatives thought now that he had received his letter, now that he knew what he was, something would be different about him. Different and strange enough that the neighbors would be able to pick up on. Noticeable, and would reflect back on the Dursleys. Which meant a whole week without seeing the sun, hidden away like some dirty secret.

But he didn't say all of this aloud. He knew better than doing something like that.

It never ended well.

The odd, vicious smile he had long since noticed the other almost always wore (more a cruel smirk, really), dropped from his face for the first time that Harry had ever seen.

It made the blond look uncharacteristically serious, rather than the demented look he usually sprang for.

It was probably the tone he said it in, Harry decided. He never was very good at keeping the spite out of his words, his disgust from spilling over when he described the lot. Not that anyone had ever noticed before.

The black haired boy watched the other, unable to see his eyes under his long hair. That wouldn't stop him from putting the entire two pounds he owned on a bet that they were narrowed underneath the strands.

"If they keep you away again, I will kill the stupid peasants." The smile was back on his face, this time with an odd laugh. Perhaps a lesser person would have ran from such a noise, but nothing internal told Harry he should. "If you are going to be late, tell me before."

A command. Normally Harry would rile up, hating everything about the other boy. How he commanded him with no thought, how he called everyone peasant, even his very tone and arrogance that seeped into his body language. This time he didn't though.

The dark haired child couldn't help but feel some guilt. He was leaving, and would only return in the summer, if he decided not to return for the winter holidays. And he couldn't tell the one person in his life, without losing all of the hope he had finally built up.

He had to tell him. Felt the urge, unlike what he had with anyone else.

Something was different about this boy. It was different in how he changed the colours on things just by thinking, but different from that as well. Just different.

Harry found it rather fascinating. Found the other boy fascinating.

He wasn't the bright-warm-happy-caring he associated with memories of his parents, nor was he the angry-scared-hot feeling his own magic (and wasn't that something, actual, truly real magic) often reflected in his own being. The other boy was a contradiction to him; scary-safe-warm-danger-destruction. Most other people he met, what were apparently called muggles, including his Aunt and Uncle, only felt of empty-nothing, and on very, very rare occasion broke-empty-echo-faint.

A sharp tug on his hair brought him out of his thoughts, and he flinched instinctively. The corners of his smile turned slightly down, and the blond tugged him up onto the seat with him, ignoring the water seeping from his still wet clothes.

Harry let out a surprised squeak at the motion, both because of the strength shown (which, wasn't as much as it should be, he could admit - he was scarily light for someone his age) and from the sudden movement.

Dropped into his lap, he felt another, softer tug on his hair.

"What are you doing?" He huffed, attempting to slide back down into the floor.

"Be still." The crowned child snapped, tugging him back into the position he had been dropped in. He hadn't answered Harry's question.

"Why?" He attempted to demand, ignoring how it came out more as a whine.

"Because I said so." A surprisingly gentle hand traced the yellowing outline of a small bruise on his face, the only non-painful skin contact that he could remember in years. He couldn't have stopped himself from leaning into the touch if he had tried.

"That's not a real answer." Harry grumbled, curling closer to the warmth of the blond.

"I gave it as an answer, so it's a real answer." The crowned boy replied, clearly amused.

"Is not." Another tug.

"I'm not arguing with you, because you're wrong, peasant." Tug.

"Well do you have to pull my hair?" Tug.

"Yes." Tug.

Harry let out a puff of hair, letting his entire body relax and drop further into his lap. The hand that had left his face for his hair resumed it's gentle tracing, blond hair obscuring eyes that he just knew where looking at him.

The calming feeling of the scary-safe-warm-danger-destruction something (it wasn't magic, he knew it was magic, felt it in his own) was so relaxing, the gentle touch on top of it, and he couldn't help but close his eyes, relishing the feeling.

The thoughts swarmed back up, filling his brain until it had chased away all signs of relaxation. He had to tell him.

"I'm leaving soon. To attend a boarding school." I'll be gone a long time, was heard clearly, despite the fact it was left unsaid.

The blonde boy snapped straight up from his lounging posture, his hair flying with the speed he used to look at the other, crown shifting on his head, and jostling Harry.

"Did the peasants make you?" He snapped, his hands moving back into his hair, tight but not quite painful.

"No." He tugged on it, not quite harshly, but enough to show his displeasure.

"I was enrolled by my parents when I was younger." How was it that I talk more to this boy than anyone else? Want to tell him more? Even without knowing his name? Harry mused. The blonde obviously noticed his attention waning, if the next tug was any indication.

"It's a good school. Already paid for and everything" He was unhappy, that much Harry could tell. You did not sit next to someone everyday and not eventually notice something.

"You don't even go to school now." It was almost like he was pouting. Harry was technically homeschooled, and had been for a long time. It kept the teachers from asking about his bruises, lack of lunches, shabby clothes and unwashed hair. Especially when compared to his cousin. It wouldn't be good if the authorities had to enquire about how the freak was treated, according to his relatives. That was probably what nailed into his head that what they were doing was wrong; that they worked to hide it, made him try and hide it.

"I need to go." It would give him power. Power over the Dursleys, power to stop being helpless. Power to live as he pleased, to understand who he was. To never be helpless again. And he needed it, as much as he needed the air he breathed and the water he drank after several long days locked away.

The other stared at him for several long moments, noting the determination and stubbornness in his eyes. Harry would go, at least at the start. He wanted this, and not even the one closest to him could stop him.

He dropped him onto the other end of the window seat, and seated himself opposite of him in such a way that his legs blocked Harry from leaving, taking advantage of the size difference between the two. Not that it meant much - he was smaller than all but the most petite of children. It was almost as if the crowned child wanted to keep him there, for as long as he could.

"What's your name, peasant?"

"Harry." The blonde puffed, evidently disliking the name.

"Short for Hadrian, Harrison?"

"It's short for Hadrian." He had learned that in school. Aunt Petunia only called him Harry when in public, and Uncle Vernon had only called him boy or freak. He had thought his name was Harry for years, and was pleased to learn otherwise.

"Then I shall call you Hades." The blonde sounded pleased with himself.

The newly dubbed Hades was simply surprised the blond hadn't called him peasant, although he had to admit, being called Hades after the god of the underworld and riches was rather nice, in an almost twisted way.

He liked it, but now he had another problem to address.

"I've never asked what your name is." The other boy was now toying with his hair, running his fingers in a way that felt marvelous, and if this was how cats felt all of the time he understood their desire for being petted. Suddenly going to Hogwarts didn't seem like the best idea and he should clearly just stay here and get the blond to pet him forever.

An eerie laugh came from the other, tone slightly sweetened by traces of fondness. Hades had the feeling the emotion in the laugh was unusual, while the laugh was not. Both seemed to fit him, truly.

"Belphegor." A soft snort left his lungs involuntarily, prompting the other to tug slightly on a strand of hair, lifting his hand and stopping his stroking. Hades pouted.

"The demon of sloth, one of the seven deadly sins." He moved slightly forwards, stretching upwards slowly, attempting to get the sensation of Belphegor's hand back on his scalp.

A single side of the other boy's lips pulled up slightly higher, a smirk. He dragged his hand through his hair once again, once again resuming his petting.

Hades silently debated asking another question. If he asked, Belphegor might stop, and he had wonderful hands, nails digging in just so - it was spine tingling.

A particularly hard stroke caused him to suck air through his teeth. Silence it was.

Perhaps he would take a ministrations where soothing him into a state of content laziness, something he rarely let himself have. Except for apparently around this boy, Belphegor.

It was rather worrying. He could think over it more later. A nap was much more important.

The demon-named child lifted his hands from his head once again, causing bleery green eyes to flutter open, pout back on his face.

Despite his eyes being covered by his hair, Hades could still feel Belphegor's stare on him, heavy and almost as if he was attempting to see inside his very soul.

"Don't stop." He whined, getting a harsh tug on one of the strands still in Belphegor's grasp.

"Don't make demands, peasant." He rebuked, although his hands once again resumed the movements. The room was silent for several long, comfortable moments. He couldn't help but close his eyes again, drifting off in the warmth of the blond, clothes having finally dried. His magic felt the warm-safe-content around him, growing lethargic like the rest of him.

Laughter, still eerie yet not startling sounded around him.

"Sleep."

He couldn't help but obey.


	4. Chapter 2

Harry glided across the floor to the front door, moving quickly to get out before the earliest risers of the Dursleys, Aunt Petunia, could wake up and stop him with the normal, obscenely long list.

Carefully stepping over the squeaky bit of floor, he froze when he landed on a bit of paper. The mail didn't arrive this early.

Stepping next to it, he picked up the mystery letter, holding it up in the dim light of morning.

 _Mr. H. Potter_

 _The Spare Room_

 _87 Ivy Street_

 _The Forgotten City, Italy_

"What on Earth-" He never had mail. Not a single scrap of a letter, in his almost eleven years of life. And even the mail he had seen wasn't written so specifically. Nothing was ever written to Mrs. P. Dursley, The Master Bedroom or whatever.

The material wasn't quite paper, he could feel. It was also written in fancy calligraphy, green ink, and sealed with wax embossed with an H.

It was the strangest bit of mail he had ever seen in the Dursley household, and it was addressed to him. It was his, regardless of the strange circumstances.

He couldn't have stopped the grin if he tried, slipping out the door so he could find a spot to read it in peace. Deciding against heading to the library for the moment - the blond would be unhappy, but something about this was private - he sprinted across the road, hiding away in one of the overgrown rose bushes his Aunt and Uncle often complained about.

He carefully picked at the wax, opening the envelope to feel the same unusual thick not-quite-paper.

 _HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

 _Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

 _(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,_

 _Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

 _Dear Mr. Potter,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

 _Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Minerva McGonagall_

 _Deputy Headmistress_

Harry couldn't figure out what to think on first. Witchcraft? Wizardry? Order of Merlin? Await your owl?

So many things.

Did that mean he was a wizard? Or a witch? What was the difference?

 _HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

 _UNIFORM_

 _First-year students will require:_

 _1\. Three sets of plain work robes (black)_

 _2\. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear_

 _3\. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)_

 _4\. One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)_

 _Please note that all pupil's clothes should carry name tags._

 _COURSE BOOKS_

 _All students should have a copy of each of the following:_

 _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_

 _by Miranda Goshawk_

 _A History of Magic_

 _by Bathilda Bagshot_

 _Magical Theory_

 _by Adalbert Waffling_

 _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_

 _by Emeric Switch_

 _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_

 _by Phyllida Spore_

 _Magical Drafts and Potions_

 _by Arsenius Jigger_

 _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_

 _by Newt Scamander_

 _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_

 _by Quentin Trimble_

 _OTHER EQUIPMENT_

 _1 wand_

 _1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)_

 _1 set glass or crystal phials_

 _1 telescope_

 _1 set brass scales_

 _Students may also bring, if they desire, an owl OR a cat OR a toad._

 _PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS_

 _ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Lucinda Thomsonicle-Pocus_

 _Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions_

His brain felt rather fried, reading over the list. He was magic. He, Harry, plain little orphan Harry Potter, had magic. The very thing Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia insisted didn't exist.

But how did he get these things? He was sure they didn't sell A Standard Book of Spells in any stores he had seen.

Was there a special place for magical people to shop? Were they Italian, or British? The letter _was_ written in English after all.

A sudden feeling of helplessness consumed him. He may be magical, his life may have the opportunity to change, but he had no way of getting any of this. Of attending this school.

He was stuck.

The dark haired boy dry heaved, nothing in his empty stomach to come up.

Such power, such knowledge, all held just out of reach. He could practically taste it.

A few wet, salty drops fell down his face. He didn't bother to wipe them away.

How could he find this place? How could he get these items?

 _How could he get this power?_

So close. So far.

Magic. Magic. Magic.

The blonde in the library had the not-magic, the strange energy. Old Mrs. Figg, before they had moved, had something different as well, although it felt empty.

He couldn't recall anyone he had ever met who had the same energy he did, the energy apparently called magic. Not in the years he had lived with the Dursleys.

A thought crossed his mind, fleeting, but rather desperate.

 _What if magic ran in families?_

His parents could have been magic, maybe. It almost didn't seem like it could be true - what kind of magical people would die in a car crash?

What Uncle Vernon said was a car crash.

His Aunt and Uncle had a tendency to lie, he knew. They lied to make themselves look better, to make other people look worse, to make sure no one saw Harry for _Harry,_ and to pass off Dudley as an ideal little kid.

Could they have been lying about magic too, rather than just believing it didn't exist?

The dark haired boy rubbed the back of his hands against his cheeks, wiping away the tears. He didn't have any evidence to back it, and wasn't willing to confront either of the adults in the house.

He had the feeling it would end with him locked away in a closet even smaller than what his cupboard used to be, letter confistacted and a few broken ribs just for good measure.

It certainly wasn't worth it.

 _We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

 _We await your owl_

An owl. He didn't have an owl. Or any idea if they meant an actual _owl_ or not. Would it be a code or something?

Think Potter, think.

They required wands. Spell books. _Dragon hide gloves._ Owls were mentioned in the list of pets. So it was safe to assume that owls were used to… send a letter, he supposed. They didn't seem to be the type to use phones if they required robes.

Maybe he could train a bird to send the letter? Even if it wasn't an owl?

It was worth a shot.

Being careful not to be seen - he had no idea how much time had passed, and it wouldn't end well if he was spotted - he made his way around the back of the house. He had long since buried the small amount of money he did have to keep it safe from Dudley.

Digging up the dirty glass jar, he noted the overwhelming amount of British pounds in the jar. He had pinched over the years at least five hundred, although the amount he had in euros was tiny in comparison. Only fifty so far.

Good enough to buy a small finch at a pet shop. And maybe a cage, if he cut it close. He would have to steal maybe another fifty or so in order to afford food and whatever other supplies a bird needed.

Stuffing the money in his pockets, he covered the jar back with dirt. He didn't want anyone to find it if he got caught while inside. They wouldn't search his pockets, but if they found a jar outside filled with money… Well, it didn't take a genius to figure that they would be beyond mad.

He slipped back around the corner, brushing the brightly coloured flowers aside to reveal the dirt and grime covered window. It was tiny, and just barely fit him, but it was a spot where Dudley couldn't fit, unmonitored, and more importantly, undiscovered entrance to the house.

He slid down, hanging onto the edge so he wouldn't drop down too suddenly onto the ground. He had long since placed a few pillows for landing, and some old crates into a flimsy set of stairs, but it was a steep drop.

All the precautions didn't keep Harry from letting out a huff as he landed, all of the air knocked out of him.

"To my room, and they to Dudley's." He half whispered to himself. Anything of Dudley's was far less likely to be noted as missing. Even the oaf would decide he had lost it in his mess, rather than Harry stealing it.

It certainly made him grateful that the other boy was too upset by the thought of Harry touching his stuff to let him clean his room. Not even Dudley could miss the fact that Harry was the one pinching his stuff then.

He shifted the rotten old boards of the wall to the side, revealing a dim interior that if one didn't know beforehand, would assume was the dark and dank portion of the inner wall.

It wasn't though. The dust and faint smell of mildew was the inside of his wardrobe, which had been one of two pieces of furniture that had been stuffed in the old room along with a dozen rotting boxes.

He suspected it had been used for storage a long time ago. While he wasn't all that happy about the smell that keeping the window open never seemed to fix, the small knick knacks, mostly moth-spared blankets, although he had found a stash of strange cult stuff in a few of the boxes. Knives, books written in some language he didn't recognize, candles and gems. The cult stuff he had usually avoided - it seemed creepy. Knowing about magic though, it would be for the best that he came back and looked through it again later. It might have actually been _magic_ stuff!

He had his own stuff, his own way in and out of the house, an actual bed, and his own _space_ where he could actually walk around if he wanted too.

Yes, Harry was very pleased with his new room.

Crawling through the hole into his cupboard, he stepped out using the ever so slightly less creaky door, padding softly across the room on the worn floors. It was only through a lot of experience and previous experimenting that had kept him from causing half the house to shriek in distress with every step.

He slunk unnoticed to the upper stories, near silent in comparison to the blaring telly in the living room. Slipping carefully into Dudley's disaster of a bedroom, he picked up the wallet discarded on the desk, half buried under crumpled bags of chips. Not bothering to sort through the whole thing, he grabbed all of the money out and tossed it as well as he could under the bed.

No doubt, Dudley would assume he had just lost it after having a spending spree or something. The lump wouldn't notice as long as he wasn't caught.

"Mummy! I want my chocolate!" He heard yelled. Of course, only just after breakfast and the whale was wanting snacks. And chocolate, at that.

He didn't even have to be nearby to know what Aunt Petunia would say. She'd coo over the whining Diddy-dums, eager to placate her oversized baby. Then retrieve his chocolate from wherever he had stashed it; in the fridge, in the pantry, in his bedroom

In his bedroom.

"Uh oh" Right on top of his keyboard, a large stack of half eaten chocolate bars. That his aunt was probably already up the stairs in order to get.

"The window!" He could have cheered, sliding the old thing open. Harry did find a flaw in his plan though - the drop was straight down, from the second story. Not high enough to kill him, but landing would certainly hurt.

Deciding he would rather hang from the window and risk a fall then face the wrath of a Petunia who would be utterly convinced he was plotting something for her pig baby, Harry did his best to close the window most the way before dropping down.

He was a wizard or a witch or something, he knew, looking down at the too far ground. Surely he could do _something_ to make the fall hurt less?

All he had to do was fall slowly. Defy the laws of science. The science that said he shouldn't be able to do what he did, even though he did it anyways.

What were the laws of the universe, when he had _magic_? Harry could laugh in the universe's face.

He would let go, and float down. He had to. He had magic after all.

Letting go of the ledge all at once, a small part of him expected to suddenly plummet to the ground, only to land on his head and hurt himself something good.

He didn't though. The raven haired young man floated to the ground, like a feather had been dropped instead.

Harry laughed, long and hard, verging on hysterics.

This was _proof,_ he knew. Proof that he wasn't a freak, that he deserved to go to that school, that he had magic and he could _use it._

Landing with a grin that wouldn't look out of place on his library companion's face, he left the property.

He had a bird to purchase.

 _BirdyBirdyBirdyBirdyBirdy_

Birds, Harry decided, were expensive. While he easily had a couple hundred euros, some of the bigger and prettier birds cost double what he had.

He barely prevented himself from doing a double take when he saw the price tag on a particularly pretty parrot.

A finch would be best, he thought. From what he knew, they weren't very bright, but they were cheap. Also not something easily noticed. He could control them with his magic, or make them smarter or whatever he needed to do in order to deliver a letter.

Well, less letter, more scrap piece of paper. But Harry had no idea about how he would go about purchasing an _owl._ Was that even legal in Italy? He didn't think it was in Britain.

Besides, even if his aunt and uncle _did_ find out about a finch, he figured they would be far less likely to protest then if they found him with an owl.

A finch was normal. An owl was not.

Carefully looking at the bright label on the glass cage of many tiny birds, he was pleased to note that each one of the brown and white finches cost only twenty. Although a glimpse of the care instructions taped to the cage noted that they preferred a friend. 40 euros for the birds, then.

"Ciao! Di cosa hai bisogno, ragazzo?" An acne covered teenage boy, in the shop uniform crooned. He was tall, although almost everyone was tall to Harry, with shaggy brown hair and just as brown eyes. Perfectly average.

"Do you speak any English, mister?" Harry knew some Italian, but probably not enough to figure out anything odd about the birds. He needed English for that.

"Looking for a pet, little guy?" The teenager switched languages, his English accented, but still good.

"Yeah! My aunty said I could have a little birdy!" He grinned, as bright and innocent as he could manage. He needed to pull off the idea of his distracted aunt letting him buy a bird, sending him in with a quite a bit of money. At least that way, they would be less likely to assume he stole it, and take the money away. Or just not let him buy a bird at all.

"Where is she at then? Did she leave you in here?" He nodded, wrinkling his nose a bit for effect.

"Aunt 'Tunia went shopping for _unmentionables,_ whatever that means. I didn't want to go clothes shopping though!"

The teenager blushed, coughing a bit before he waved it off and pointed at the birds.

"That the kind of birdy you want?" Harry nodded enthusiastically, already tired of his little act.

"They need a friend, so I need two!"

"Ah, two society finches. Very nice." He unlocked the glass cage, and with a surprisingly sure hand snagged two of the little birds out, gently placing them in a cardboard box that lay, prepper beforehand.

"Need a hand getting the stuff for them?"

Harry nodded again, before giving a list. "I need a cage, some bird food, and things to go in their cage!"

Whatever that was. Apparently they needed stands and toys and mirrors and things. For such tiny creatures, they needed a lot of stuff.

"Right," The pimpled teenager said, grabbing a plastic basket, "You need cage liners, a few bird toys, food - they prefer food a hair larger then you would think- this mirror, a cage stand, a little nest, food bowls," He listed, dropping stuff in, but not before directing him at the best kind of cage for the birds.

Harry couldn't help but zone out, only keeping a half hearted count of the price. Just enough to make sure he had the money for it.

All of this, just to send a letter.

Stupid bird mail.

Can I just say, for all I should have put more in this chapter (mainly attempts to magic the bird or something), I didn't get around to it. Mainly, because it took soooo much thought to figure out how on Earth Harry could send off a reply letter, without magically realizing that Petunia and Vernon where liars this entire time, or an owl just waiting in the trees or something. There is definitely a reason everyone skips over that, adds in an extra portion to the letter, lets Harry find Diagon beforehand... Figuring out what to do here was the biggest pain.

Now that the rant is over

Ta!


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